He went on past the sullen gang of pick and shovel, treading the middle of the broad turnpike.
“Ain't that a tramp?” asked one of the guards.
“I don't know what he is,” confessed the farmer.
The man who called himself Farr turned a corner and came upon the same automobile which had overtaken and passed him, contemptuously kicking its dust over him, a few minutes before he arrived at the farmer's fence.
A rear tire was flat and a young man who was smartly attired in gray was smacking gloved hands together and cursing the lumps of a jail-bird-built road and the guilty negligence of a garage-man who had forgotten to put a lift-jack back into the kit. Two women stood beside the car and looked upon the young man's helplessness.
“Enter tortoise, second scene of the ancient drama, 'The Tortoise and the Hare,'” Walter Farr informed himself.
His amused brown eyes noted the young man was obviously flabby.
“Here, you! Help me prop up this axle,” commanded the charioteer.
“You do not need help,” suggested Farr. “You need somebody who can do the whole job.”
The glance he gave the young man, up and down, conveyed his full meaning.